


Love is here where I live

by china_shop



Series: Caffrey/Jones future!fic [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Established Relationship, Fic, Future Fic, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clinton's gaze was steady and he didn't prevaricate. "You got any plans for Christmas?" / Sequel to "Open Your Eyes, You Can Fly" and "What we're made of". Spoiler for 3.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is here where I live

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mergatrude for read-through. <3

It was early December, there was a bite in the air and the stores glittered with Christmas decorations. Neal was supposed to meet Clinton at June's at six-thirty, but he happened to drop off a case of French champagne at Elizabeth's showroom just as her client, an anxious mother of the bride, showed up with her retinue. He couldn't leave Elizabeth to face down half a dozen tightly primped society matrons on her own. He texted to say he'd be late, and it was nearly seven-thirty by the time he hung up his overcoat and ran up the stairs.

Clinton was on the couch, reading the _Times_ while a procedural played on TV. He was alone. Mozzie spent less time at Neal's place these days, busy with Yvonne or his mostly legal antiques business, and when he was here, he tended to prefer June's company to Clinton's. He got on fine with Clinton; they just didn't have a lot in common. Clinton said it was easier when Neal was there to help the conversational flow, and that at least Mozzie had stopped referring to him as Big Brother, after Neal called him on it that time.

Neal flopped down on the couch next to Clinton. "Hey. Sorry I'm late."

"No problem." Clinton folded the paper and turned to kiss him hello. He was wearing an angora-cashmere blend charcoal sweater that was soft under Neal's hands and he'd taken off his tie. His welcoming smile, the leisurely heat of his kiss, the strength of his body—they still turned Neal on like crazy, even after all these months, and he forgot about dinner and whatever plans they'd had. He pushed Clinton back against the arm of the couch and insinuated his hands under his shirt, stroking across his lower back. Clinton was thoughtful, trustworthy and loyal, better at predicting consequences than Neal had ever been, and quietly but irresistibly sexy. When Neal was with him, it was like coming home—if home were a cozy gay porno.

Which these days, it kind of was. Clinton was already going for Neal's belt.

"I only got home two seconds ago. I think this might be a personal best," said Neal. As he spoke, the TV program was interrupted by an annoying jingly commercial. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV off without looking, intent on kissing and helping Clinton out of his clothes.

But Clinton caught his hand and pushed him upright, then sat up himself, flushed and breathless. "Come on. I know better than to do this here."

Neal grinned. The first and last time they'd had sex on the couch, he'd spent the ensuing week getting the stains out of the upholstery while Clinton made jokes about buying plastic covers for the furniture. "But I have a vast array of cleaning products now," said Neal.

"Yeah," said Clinton unimpressed. "Frankly, I'd rather you spent that effort and attention on me. Come on." He went over to the bed and started stripping, and Neal watched him for a moment, appreciating the casual striptease, the display of well-muscled limbs and smooth chest.

"You make a compelling argument," he said, and followed him over, draping his own clothes on a chair and dragging Clinton to bed. They fucked, slow and intense, Clinton pushing into him with a deep moan like it was the first time, gripping his hip so tight that it hurt and Neal had to pry his fingers off, interweave them with his own. Clinton reached around and stroked Neal's cock, and Neal, lying on his side with one knee bent up, arched into him, his heart full, his body shaking with pleasure.

Clinton kissed his shoulder, the side of his neck, and Neal made himself keep breathing, letting his arousal spread and build, reveling in the stutter of Clinton's hips, how he was speeding up as if he couldn't help himself. Neal pushed back greedily, meeting each thrust, loving the pressure, the thick burn. The rhythm was a dance, an extension of their conversations, their lives, and Neal's orgasm rose up in him, familiar and new, stealing his breath and making sweat prickle along his hairline and down his spine, despite the slight chill in the air. He spilled into Clinton's hand, sooner than he really wanted. Clinton held it together another few minutes, and then followed, pulsing inside Neal with a heartfelt moan.

He pulled out carefully, and Neal dragged the covers over them, to create a cocoon of warmth. "So," he said, faking chirpiness, "how was your day?"

Clinton wrapped his arms around him and smiled. "It started out fine, and it just improved about a hundred percent."

"Mine too. Some coincidence, huh?" Neal held him close and kissed him.

Clinton's hand slid down his side and settled on his ass. "Something I want to ask you."

"Mmm?" Neal stayed relaxed, despite the faint tension that had entered their embrace. Clinton was trying to be casual, but Neal could see through him as easy as glass.

But Neal didn't need his detective skills; Clinton's gaze was steady and he didn't prevaricate. "You got any plans for Christmas?"

"Not really." Neal hid his surprise. "I usually go to Peter and Elizabeth's with Moz." He shrugged. Clinton already knew that; he'd come too, last year. "Why?"

"I'd like it if you came home with me," said Clinton. "Meet my family."

Neal nodded dumbly, more to acknowledge the invitation than as a reply. Clinton didn't talk about his family much; all Neal knew was that his father had fought in Vietnam, and that Clinton talked to his mom a couple of times a month. This was about as out of the blue as an invitation between long-term boyfriends could get.

Clinton ran his thumb along Neal's jaw line to the skin behind his ear. "They'll like you," he said.

"How do you know?" Neal was pretty sure a gay ex-felon wasn't most people's idea of the perfect partner for their son. Maybe he could put on a show—they didn't have to know about his past.

"Trust me, you just have to show up." Clinton was covering but there was still a nervous edge, something he wasn't saying. Neal knew there was a part of him that still half-expected Neal to walk out, like his ex-wife had when things got too intense; perhaps it was that.

Neal studied him. "What have you told them?"

"Everything," said Clinton. He grinned. "Well, you know, the G-rated version. But they know about you. They know how we met."

"You—" Neal shook his head in wonder. Clinton called _him_ shameless sometimes, but it was really Clinton who refused to give in to shame or to accept other people's standards for them. He'd been open and unapologetic from the start. The first time, when he said he'd told Peter about their first date, Neal had fallen hard, taking himself by surprise. It had turned what might have been a light-hearted affair into something real. And then when Clinton risked making that first evening together a real date, instead of beer and takeout, Neal had fallen further, into something like love. It had grown from there, filling him up. Making him happy in a way he'd never known before. Content.

And they'd only got closer over the last fourteen months—God, how had it been over a year already? They still lived separately, but that was more from habit than any need for independence, at least on Neal's part. And now this. Neal kissed Clinton, sucked gently on his lower lip. "What's my competition? Who else have you brought home before?"

Clinton shook his head. "It's not a competition. It's just my mom and dad and grandma, and my sister, her husband and their two kids. Don't worry, it's all pretty low-key."

"And I have to keep my hands off you," said Neal, pretending to think it over.

Clinton rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you can handle it. So—what do you think?"

"I think yes," said Neal. "I want to meet them. I'll call Elizabeth—maybe we can do New Year's Eve there instead of Christmas."

"That sounds good. Cool." Clinton threaded his fingers into Neal's hair and kissed him, clearly wanting to change the subject.

"Mmm." Neal pulled away and summoned an appropriately solemn expression. "Wow, Christmas with the family. That's so—"

"Shut up," said Clinton, looking embarrassed. He poked Neal in the ribs. "It's not that big a deal."

"Yeah, it is," said Neal softly. "I love you."

Clinton rolled him onto his back and pulled a face. "Just so you know, it's—You're the first."

"The first what?" Neal raised his eyebrows. "The first guy you've taken home? I kind of figured."

"The first anyone," said Clinton. "I always—If I was seeing someone, and it was, you know, a spending-Christmas-together kind of thing, I always went to her folks' place. I don't know why."

"Wow," said Neal again. He grinned. "They're going to love me. Bringing their son back to the fold."

"I went home when I was single," said Clinton, defensively. Then he blew out a breath and grinned. "But yeah. Plus, I told them about the Federal Reserve case back in 2011, how you stepped between me and David Lawrence's gun. Not to mention the Byrnes case, when you stopped Patty Byrnes from taking me out with her father's revolver."

Neal laughed. "You told them I saved your life? Talk about stacking the deck."

Clinton shrugged. "It's all true."

"Yeah, but—" Neal gave him a wicked look. "Ever thought of taking up con artistry? I think you have a natural talent."

"Oh shut up," said Clinton, and kissed him again, deep and distracting. Seriously distracting. Neal hooked his ankle around Clinton's leg and pulled him down, almost ready for round two, except—

His stomach growled. "Did we have dinner plans?" He let his head fall back and tried to catch his breath. Clinton nipped his earlobe; his hands were everywhere, no tension or worry now, just desire. "Time out," Neal told him, catching him by the wrists. "Food break."

"Yeah, okay," said Clinton, with obvious reluctance.

"You're out of control," said Neal. He loved being wanted, the way Clinton couldn't seem to get enough of him, but man, he was hungry. "Play will resume once we've eaten."

"Okay," said Clinton, and this time it actually sank in. He kissed Neal once more, quickly, pulled his hands free and rolled onto his back. "I could eat."

"Is there anything in the refrigerator?" asked Neal, sitting up. Usually he was good at keeping track of practicalities like food, but the prospect of spending Christmas with the Jones family was throwing him a little, now he'd agreed to it. He wanted them to like him. That wasn't usually a problem, but this had to be the real him, no tricks—the person he'd spent years excavating out from under the slick aliases and careful charm.

"There's leftover tuna casserole." Clinton pulled on his clothes and went to the kitchenette to rummage in the cabinets. "We've got food." He cast a knowing smile over his shoulder. "I can throw something together if you want to shower."

"Cool," said Neal. "Thanks." He grabbed his robe, took a clean towel from the closet and headed toward the bathroom.

Clinton caught his arm as he passed and gave him a careful, searching look. "Hey, don't freak out on me, okay?"

"I'm not. Much." Neal smiled ruefully. It was still unnerving sometimes how well Clinton could read him. But then, that was part of the attraction too, and Clinton had spent a lot of time practicing.

Clinton leaned in and kissed Neal's nose. "If it helps, I'm actually more concerned what you think of them than the other way around."

Neal laughed and slung his towel over his shoulder. "That does help, actually." He went to the door. "Won't be long."

Clinton turned back to the refrigerator, casual and right at home. "I'll be here."

Neal went to the bathroom to shower, whistling, knowing it was true.

END


End file.
